


W-W-N Double-D?

by therjolras



Category: Sense8 (TV), Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen, the chulu is kinda lowkey but like
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 21:15:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7238782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therjolras/pseuds/therjolras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pavel Chekov is a Sensate. There are complications.</p>
            </blockquote>





	W-W-N Double-D?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fate-motif (Jo_Girard)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jo_Girard/gifts).



> So basically this is terrifying because A) it's for my bae Jo who Actually Likes Star Trek and B) because I haven't watched enough Star Trek to be sure of characterizations and I fear the Roasting. Either way, this is finally out there, and this is probably not the only part of this because I have Ideas but so help me if I don't put it out on time. Because, 
> 
> THIS IS FOR JO'S BIRTHDAY. She's on a field trip of some sort RN and Zeus knows when she'll get wifi, but I'm posting this on her birthday anyway. I LOVE YOU JO HAPPY BIRTHDAY SORRY YOU HATE BIOLOGY

Pavel closes his eyes in Moscow and opens them to the towering stone monuments that he’s learned to associate with the Midwestern United States of America. The sky above him is brilliant with stars and the air is blistering hot, but for some reason his body does not mind. His mind catalogs: the dirt under his feet feels like dirt, not university flooring. He feels a cool breeze on his face, not university heating. He glances down: he is still wearing his own trousers and coat. He feels his own awe working its way up his throat.

Then he blinks, and he is in Moscow, on his way to classes. His peers, older and taller and sterner than he, jostle him as they pass. Pavel hurries on; he has a medical examination today and he cannot be late for anything. 

\--

Jim’s pretty sure that Mr. Christopher Pike is messing with him, but the directions he’s given are legit, as is the hideous warehouse with the keys shoved under the door. He has no idea what to expect; he hasn’t since his well-earned Vegas-cation was interrupted by hallucinations and a long,  _ long  _ drive into the desert. A former military setup in the middle of Nevada could be another hallucination; the rust on his hands, the heat, the groaning of the warehouse door, those are real.

His phone light illuminates dust. And dust, and more dust, and in the back of the dusty warehouse a similarly dusty van. He touches the side of the van: it’s real, and warm from the day’s and night’s heat. Under the dust above the trim line, he can see letters: when he brushes the dust away he finds ten red letters in a no-nonsense script.  _ Enterprise.  _

“Enterprise,” he says aloud.

“Good job,” says Pike’s voice, behind him. “The A/C’s good, by the way, or it was last time I used it. Keys are in the visor. It’s yours.”

“Why?” Jim says, still looking at the lettering. It’s easier than looking at someone who’s not tangibly there for anyone else to see.

“Because you’re gonna need it,” Pike says. “Clusters always need a group transport. Makes ‘em feel special. Speaking of, if you’re interested, you’re only a couple hundred miles from one of yours, in San Francisco.”

“I think I’ll start with heading back to Vegas,” Jim says. 

“Your bike should fit in the back,” Pike says.

“Frisco it is,” Jim says drily, and goes to get the bike. He gets a glimpse of Pike as he goes; the older man follows at a distance, just out of Jim’s periphery. 

“Incidentally,” Pike says, “You might not have much time to get used to all this bullshit. There’s a man in Moscow, Pavel Chekov. He’s about to need your help.”

“First wild-goose-chases, now rescue missions,” Jim mutters. “Vegas first. I’m gonna need a drink.”

It’s too early for this.

\--

Pavel’s worrying. He thought his examination went quite well-- he’s on the smaller side, but he’s not sickly or weak in any valid way-- but the examiner was being funny when they waved him out, and there’s been a lot of muttering around the halls. Something about the military showing up on the premises. Not that the military has anything to do with Pavel, but it’s worrisome nonetheless.

He gets a little more worried when he’s summoned out of classes, and not-quite military personnel-- men in uniforms, but not the right ones-- are waiting for him. “Chekov, Pavel Andreievich?” they say. 

“Yes,” Pavel says. “Is this about the program?”

“No,” they say. “Your medical examination showed an anomaly. You must come with us.”

“Okay,” Pavel says, slowly, hoping he’s not panicking (or at least not obviously panicking). “Where are we going?”

“Further examination,” one of them says, and Pavel figures that’s a really cryptic, really frightening answer, but he really can’t say no to someone in an actual uniform, so he goes. He’s joined on the walk by a grizzled, sunburned man in a loose linen shirt and cargo pants covered in sand and blood.

“Great,” he says. “Uniforms. You ready for trouble, kid? You’d better be.” 

“You’re American,” Pavel says. As he says it, the scene changes: he’s standing in a desert, with a clear blue sky above him, and the strange American man standing irritably next to him. 

“At this point,” he says, “My nationality is more or less Sand. Who are you?”

“Pavel,” he says. “I’m in Moscow. Where are you?”

“Afghanistan,” says the American. “McCoy. Leonard McCoy. Doctor, not a soldier.”

“Well, soldiers tend to frighten me, so I’m grateful,” Pavel says. “Nice to meet you, Doctor McCoy.”

“You too, Pavel,” says McCoy. “Good luck figuring out what the uniforms want. I’d better get back to work.”

“Good-bye,” Pavel says. No sooner has he gotten back then he’s joined by another American man, less grizzled and sunburned and more energetic.

“So here’s the thing,” he says. “I’ve been talking to this guy who apparently knows what the hell is going on, and this guy says you’re in real danger with these guys in the uniforms. Incapacitating brain surgery, he said. You need to run, now.”

“How?” Pavel says. The American falters, presses his lips together. “The man, Pike, said I needed to try something. Sharing. Means I’d do the running and you’d just watch. If we can pull it off, I can get you out of here. Think you can roll with that?”

“I think so,” Pavel says. “Do you know how to handle… running and stuff?”

“I’ve got some experience in the area,” he replies. “My name’s Jim. Pavel, right?”

“Right,” Pavel says. “Okay. Save me from the creepy uniforms.”

Jim grins. “It would be my pleasure.”

Next thing Pavel knows, he’s off to the side and Jim’s tearing both uniforms a new one. Pavel can only follow when Jim takes off down the hall, calling directions as he goes. Then he’s in his own body, tearing out the door into the street. Jim calls after him: “The car! Get in the car!” Pavel jumps the curb and throws himself into the driver’s seat-- thank heaven for unlocked cars-- and realizes something.

“I can’t drive!”

Next thing he knows, he’s in the passenger seat, and a handsome man with golden skin-- Asian, Pavel thinks, though he can’t be certain of the specifics-- who fires up the engine and declares, “I do! My name’s Sulu, by the way, Hikaru Sulu, and I hope we know what we’re doing ‘cause I’m pretty sure this is turning you into a car thief.” The car revs, and Sulu pulls out into the streets of Moscow looking immensely cheerful. “So, where to?”

“I’m back!” Says Jim’s voice from the back seat. “Mr. Pike says to get the hell out of dodge, or Russia, whatever. Apparently those guys who got the read on you are real creepy types who like to chop sensates up for Science, and they are really good at finding people once they’ve got a read. Your best chance is to leave the country, at least temporarily.”

“Pike? Chris Pike?” Sulu says, breaking several speed laws as he turns out of traffic. “I ran into him a couple of days ago. He likes to show up and say cryptic, sarcastic things at very convenient times.”

“He gave me a  _ van, _ ” Jim says. “What am I gonna do with a van?”

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” Sulu says. Jim hums assent and vanishes. “Any ideas on where to go yet?” Sulu adds to Pavel. 

“I don’t know,” Pavel says. “I-I guess the best course of action would be to get on the first flight out of Russia.”

“First flight out of Russia,” Sulu says. “Better get on that.”

“Oh, right,” Pavel says, and pulls out his phone. “First flight out is to Johannesburg,” he reports. “South Africa.”

“Oh, sounds fun,” Sulu says, then pauses. Then he says, “Mr. Pike says one of us is in South Africa. Maybe you’ll run into him. Her. Pike says it’s a Her in South Africa. Where’s the airport, again?”

\-- 

Nyota doesn’t know what to do with this. She likes to think she’s a pretty stable person-- in her position, it’s kind of a requirement-- but this whole thing with the small Russian man and the overly flirtatious American man is making her a little doubtful. She’s clarified that the Russian one is in a good deal of trouble and on his way to Johannesburg right now, which is a little unnerving, but she’s paying attention at this point because she likes the idea of a stalker hallucination less than a stalker psychic link or whatever it is. At least if the stalker is real, she’s not insane.

Nyota really doesn’t want to be insane. It’s not happening, and that’s it. She’s not insane.

She really wonders if she’s insane, for a moment at the arrivals gate. In between one breath and another she wonders, and worries, and overthinks, and then she opens her eyes and compartmentalizes. Calms. A few moments later, the Russian--  _ Pavel,  _ her instincts tell her, his name is Pavel-- emerges from the far entry. He looks exhausted. The flight from Moscow took over half a day and Pavel clearly hasn’t slept in that time, though also he’s clearly been trying, and his curly hair is flattened and askew on one side.

His eyes fall on her about fourth or fifth, but she’s already approaching him at that point with her placard tucked under one arm. “Pavel Chekov?” She says, when they’re in murmuring range of each other. “I’m Uhura. I’m glad you’re not a hallucination.”

“Me, too,” Pavel says. “Um. Sulu-- have you met Sulu? He’s nice-- told me to say Hi, but he had to go to sleep. Time differences are fun like that, apparently.” 

“Good to know,” Nyota says. “How do you feel? Jet-lagged? Clearly you need to sleep.”

“I do,” Pavel says, falling in step with her as she turns to lead the way out. “After getting in contact with you and Jim, I was… stressed, I suppose.”

“Jim? The American?” Nyota says. Pavel nods.

“There are a few,” Pavel says. “Apparently. But Leonard is in Afghanistan, so I don’t know if he counts.”

“Afghanistan?” Nyota says, but leaves it at that. “My car’s over here.” The doors slide open and there’s a last blast of air conditioning before they emerge onto the sidewalk. Pavel’s breath stutters-- in surprise at the heat, Nyota suspects, it’s a bit of a change from Moscow-- and he drops behind her a bit in the short walk to where Nyota’s parked. Unsurprisingly, he dozes the whole way back to Nyota’s apartment, and barely makes it to her sofa when they get there. Nyota, for her part, locks the door and makes herself a cup of tea and tries to reach the others.

**Author's Note:**

> that's probably not the end of this. Thanks for reading! please do comment and tell me your thoughts. also if you're interested in joining the aesthetic trash train that is my tumblr, you can find me there @captainpeggys!


End file.
